Welcome to Somewhere
by The Illusion Mage
Summary: It is the twenty-first century, and the Ring has been reborn, along with twelve figures from a past reality... r/r
1. Ch 1

Welcome to Somwhere

This started as a "rant" after reading a fic involving a really, really, horrible OC, a significant lack of Boromir romance fics, an evening spent at Library of Moria, and a Newsies reincarnation story that died after awhile. Yep, I'm a confused, confused person. This is what working for four months on a tedious novel does to one…I needed to write something lighter after that. ^^ Don't own LOTR. Wish I did. Slash warning.

I leave it to you to guess which character has been reincarnated into who, for the meanwhile.

***

_  
"The soul never really dies, and the body is never really alive." ~Isaac Singer_

Dimitri Belov awakened.

The glass of vodka sat unobtrusively upon its shelf, backed by the eminence of the formidable piano. The clock upon the mantle ticked away, counting down the minutes, hours, days, weeks of time spent in hell. And still he sat, half-dressed amongst the ruffled sheets of the big bead, throbbing head supported by a net of long fingers. Early afternoon sunlight lanced ferociously through the open window, and still, he did not feel the fathomless warmth of it. The blood seemed to have frozen in his veins long ago.

Dark hair spilled over his cheeks, sweeping past his face and obscuring profound dark eyes. He was the picture of despair. It was written into every line of his body, into every aspect of the too-empty bedroom, from the chill despite the warmth, to the empty spot at his side where Dania's small frame had been. He reached out, running a hand over the hollow place. She had left him three days ago, severed a fragile cord in the space of time that it took a heart to beat.

Or break.

Dimitri rolled over, wincing at the sudden shift of weight. The low mattress creaked beneath him, protesting as he stepped off it. The luxury apartment seemed so stark. The piano glared back at him, papers scattered about its pedals and base, about the legs of the seat. They were filled with all kinds of notes: half notes, quarters, sixteenths, crescendos, dimminuendos—symbols, from the grand power of double _forte_ to the unobtrusive subtlety of _pianissimo_. Tribute to his skills as a composer.

A goddamned starving _composer,_ he thought irritably, tramping his way to the counter at the opposite end of the room. His lanky frame was outlined neatly against the tall glass windows, blinds wide open.

Don't give a damn. Let the world know I shop at cheap, shoddy stores for my no-name brand of boxers. I'm losing money fast, anyway.

He fell forwards, leaning against the countertop for support, burying his face in his hands.

God. What would Dad say if he could see me now? This is classic: boy leaves home, boy searches for fame, boy finds fame. Boy becomes man. Man finds love. Man loses love and becomes terrified little kid again. Perfect.

Not that he could blame Dania for leaving him. It had been an unhealthy relationship; he had been draining the life and vitality from her with his dependancy.

She was always crazy, he mused, flipping the sink on with a deft twist of his hand. _Always coming up with weird things._

"Do you believe in karma?" she'd inquired, tilting her head back. The long, chestnut locks fell charmingly from her visage. He had laughed long and loud, shaking his head 'no.' She'd looked so disappointed.

And defensive.

Turning to face him, Dania strived to prove her point. "There are things beyond this reality, you know," she'd said. "It's not all one big box, like you think it is. There's more."

"Like?" he'd prodded, teasing.

"Well…" she hesitated, one hand curled around her steaming cup of coffee. "…well, have you ever walked by a palce you know_ you've never been to before, and somehow…I dunno…somehow _felt_ like it's the most familiar spot on earth?"_

Dimitri blinked, coming back to himself. The tap-water ran frigid over his fingers. The clock ticked steadily. He sighed and turned the sink off, realizing the pointlessness of his actions. He was not thirsty; his fingers just wanted for something to do.

If you want something to do, you'll pay Fred a visit today. He's probably wondering why you left so early, so soon last night. There's still the possibility of a record to discuss…

He turned, reflection snared in the glass of the high windows.

And stopped dead for a moment.

The image that stared back at him was not his own.

A gaunt, careworn face gazed back, bordered by lank, unwashed hair. The tunic was ragged, frayed, the eyes so intense that he barely recognized them. A weapon's blade flashed in the dying light, a mighty sword, a potent tool of destruction, its blade re-forged—

Dimitri blinked, and the image vanished. He stared hard for a minute longer, then turned away with an agonizing slowness.

Tired. Have to stop by the café on the way to the studio. And buy coffee. I'm tired of paying for something I could make at home.

And the image in the window's reflection—his 'other self,' became quickly forgotten, swept into life's violent current and soon lost.

***

The three of them sat unobtrusively, clustered on the corner of a street. One of them stood a head taller than the other two, clean-shaven, slightly stocky, and fidgeting nervously with the 'tail' of his jacket. The next was a woman, outwardly human, cynical expression, hawk-like features, small stature and all. The third was looked suspiciously out of place, long, golden hair swept out of his eyes, mismatched clothing appearing as though it had been thrown on at the last minute. He glanced amusedly at the girl standing beside him, letting loose a soft chuckle.

"Well? We've been waiting for a long enough time. Where is the man you speak of?"

The girl—Briar—gnawed her lower lip, barbed green eyes darting out into the steady rush of people.

"I don't know," she admitted. "He was supposed to be here a…well, a long time ago."

The man in the jacket turned to glare at her. "Remind me again, _Briar_," he hissed, "why am I following a deranged girl and a pointy-eared frea…ah…_being_…around a crowded city?"

Briar's response was tired, automatic. "Because you have to. You're one of the Few: one of the are humans who is aware of his past lives, his past realities. And don't whine. It could be worse; you could be trapped in the body I'm trapped in. Or, you could be like Greenleaf here—" she jerked in a thumb in the blonde's direction— "resurrected to serve his purpose, and then go back to the grave."

The man sighed resignedly. "Remind me again. About the other part."

Briar shook her head, short-cropped yellow hair flashing in the light. The gaudy bangles and earrings she wore clanged softly against one another. The girl gestured airily.

"In another place, another existence, you played son to a ruling Steward. You were born into a time when the threat of the One Ring was _more_ than just a rumor. And you were a part of the company chosen to destroy it. It was destroyed all right," she added sardonically, "but that was in another reality, another dimension. The Ring, like you and your comrades, has been—reincarnated, you could say. And so has the one who created it. It is your task to—"

"That was a rhetorical question, you know. No need to get all 'smoke and mirrors' on me."

Briar shot him a dirty look. "I _know_. I'm just trying to hammer home how important this man we're waiting for is: he's key in what's about to happen. And we're going to wait out here till Doomsday, if we have to."

"I've got a feeling that's going to be the case," the man replied gloomily, folding his arms over his chest. "Fine, then. I'll wait. But this is costing me an interview with…somebody. Understand?"

Briar rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I understand."


	2. Ch 2

Welcome to Somewhere

I hate disclaimers. I don't own LOTR, nor am I making any money out of this. I also apologize for the many typos in the previous chapter…I'm all typed out. One-hundred and twenty pages of novel, five hours of editing, and a whole backlash of ideas are to be blamed for the poor quality of this story. *sighs*

To **nanana**: Elrond in a woman's body? Well, you're half right. ^__~  
To **LadyofMirkwood**: Thanks for the review. You guessed right at everybody except for Eowyn. Briar's real identity isn't going to be revealed till a bit later. 

*** 

The man blocked out the sound of chatter. Briar's words, and those of the elf's faded into the background. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and began to recount the events that had lead up to this one moment. City streets disintegrated into oblivion; the grind and churn of life dulled from sensation-

_He was at club, a jagged piece in the mosiac of nightlife. Loud music throbbed hard against his ears; the shape and movement of many bodies mingled with the steady, undying rhythm. He had come here to brood over another job lost, and had found himself instead, accosted by a very strange, very nervous girl. Everything about her screamed 'oddball,' from the mismatched choice of clothing to the bad haircut and pointed ears._

Is she drunk?_ he had wondered momentarily. Her words seemed intoxicated enough. He leaned away from her, watching as she sighed in complete and utter frustration. _

_"All right," she repeated. "I'm going to ask you again. Don't pretend to not know." _

_He tensed. "Don't pretend to not know what?" _

_She ignored his question. "What is your name? Your given name."_

_ He eyed her suspiciously, shifting one leg and wincing as the circulation came back to it. _

_"Why?" _

_One small fist came crashing down onto the table._

_"Goddamn it, just answer the question!"_

_"All right, all right," he atoned hastily, not used to dealing with fiesty strangers, particularly if they were female. "Devlin. Devlin Pearson." Her dark eyes glinted knowingly. She nodded a bit, then leaned forwards. There was an earnestness in her gaze; an ardency that frankly unnerved him._

_"Nice meeting you," she said dryly. Then, her tone intensified again. She gestured when she spoke; large, sweeping physical articulations that caused him to withdraw several times. _

_"I know you, Mr. Pearson, even though we've never met before. And I know, that since the age of nine, you've been aware of something beyond your own life." _

_"I don't know what you're talking about," he lied. She shook her head. _

_"Don't give me that load of crap. Because I won't hear it. I want you to understand something: that you're not crazy, or insane in any way. I-" she struggled for words. "…I'm not really sure how to explain this to you. But I'll try. "When you came of age, your head became filled with memories that were not your own, ranging from past lives in different eras and countries of this world, to lives within realms that have never been seen by mortal eyes before." Her gaze was strong, intimate. It seemed as though somebody else hid behind the hawklike features, the femminine mask. "You are one of the Few." _

_"You're crazy," Devlin snapped. "What the-" he stopped short, realizing how loud his tone of voice had become. "What the hell are you talking about?" The reply was instantaneous. _

_"Reincarnation," she'd practically breathed. "You're an old soul, Devlin…or should I call you Boromir, son of Denthor? It doesn't matter. They're only names. The transferring of the spirit doesn't know the meaning of dimensions, realities, or time. The spirit is forever." _

It had taken quite a bit of talk, quite a bit of convincing, but Devlin had followed Briar out of the club, into the dim of the streets. And it was there that he had found salvation, requital. 

He opened his eyes, returning to the present, to daylight. 

Strange, odd-those two words had very much been a part of him as a child, had followed him even into adulthood. Devlin was passionate, ambitious, arrogant. He strove for the best, and would stop at nothing until he had it. But beneath the amiable, no-nonesense surface lurked something deeper, something abstruse. He had lived for a long time with the weight of memories he thought did not belong to him, flashbacks and visions that manifested themselves at random intervals. It had been such a relief when he had allowed Briar to convince him that there was a perfectly logical explanation for what he had experienced. 

_Perfectly logical,_ he thought, wry smile on his lips. _Notice your own words: you allowed Briar to talk you into it. Grasping at air, Devlin Pearson?_ He crossed his arms over his chest, put one foot against the wall, and turned to speak with one of his two companions. He was disgruntled to find that they were already immersed in deep conversation.

*** 

Legolas was holding it together quite nicely, considering the circumstances. 

Briar noticed Devlin's sudden want for attention, and hastened her final words to the elf. The man standing behind her only managed to catch snatches of what was said-

"…time's almost up. You know the way? Good…then…start looking for them. You should…because…" 

-but the elf was able to pick everything up. Blue eyes glinted keenly in the afternoon sunlight. He turned away, making for the busy intersection ahead. Some wisps of blonde hair escaped their tie, falling forwards and onto his face. And for a single moment, the wraps of modernism came loose. He was the Archer again, a Prince of Elves, a vital part of the Mirkwood royalty. Then, the moment was gone, snatched by the pressing state of affairs with a hideous speed and cruelty. 

Briar watched him go. He would find the others, and come back with them. The woman was about to turn back to Devlin when a sharp cry from her companion caused her to jerk, startled. The sight that met her eyes was half amusing, half trying. 

The man had been bowled over by a person from the crowd- 

_-a person- _

Her eyes widened with alarming pace. 

_Gods! This is it! That's him! _

*** 

"Look out!!!" The cry came too late. Devlin would later curse his stupidity, even as he turned to glance about for the person that the warning was directed at. A sudden weight flung itself upon him, and he was cast to the ground, the thick sheet of papers that the other man had been carrying scattering everywhere. Devlin cried out, then reached up to shove whoever it was off. His hands made contact with the other's shoulders, his eyes with a completely different set.

Dark hair. Dark gaze. A familiarity… 

Then, he was slipping from reality. The vision took Devlin in a flash of white and gold light-

_"I shall find no rest here tonight." Aragorn looked up, dark eyes flickering with the weight of true soul, true witness of seasons come and gone. He opened his mouth, as though to say something…and the words blurred…dimmed…swirled crazily into one another- _

"Aragorn." Devlin's voice was husky, breathless. He reeled away, scrambling back to his feet. Briar was silent. The newcomer stood, looking furious. He gestured wordlessly at the scattered papers. Devlin attempted to look apologetic, and failed. The words of 'sorry' that were meant to exit his mouth failed him. 

Instead: "You. You're Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Isildur's Heir. Strider. Estel-" 

"The Man With Too Many Names," Briar said smoothly, drawing her charge back a bit. She eyed the two of them, both bewildered. "I think," the woman stated, "that we'd better discuss this someplace else. Come on, Boromir." She raised an eyebrow in Dimitri's general direction. "You coming, too, Strider? Or will you choose to stay uninformed." 

Dimitri frowned. He was not a person who enjoyed being kept in the dark… 

*** 

Legolas tracked, searching, ever searching. There were seven others to be found. The wizard, the shield-maiden, and the Keeper of Lorien. Up, over another sidewalk, through another intersection. 

Denthor's younger son, the Balrog-slayer, the one forged from undying loyalty, and… 

A grimace crossed his fair features. He continued on his way, unaware that somebody was watching him. Somebody who's face was yet to be revealed, somebody who also eyed the Ring. 

The loyal, and- Legolas stopped, breathing lightly. He turned his face skywards, checking the sun's position. It was almost time… 

And… 

The Ring-bearer makes it complete, he mused, and slipped catlike into the shadows, to bide his remaining moments. 


End file.
